After Donald shook off the parasites and courtiers, he went on a mad Diet Coke jag around the city in a Secret Service Escalade, hitting every McDonald’s the hat could find on Yelp, sampling wares both fluid and fried until his bowels rumbled like an angry horde of Congresswomen. “More,” he cried, “More!” pushing the Secret Service boys, nervous like alley cats, further into the streets of nighttime DC, past museum guards getting blow-jobs from lobbyists on the patio tables of K Street, past junkies on the nod outside million-dollar apartments, too high to use their keypads to get inside, past antifa sturmabteilunglings puking in the gutters to post on snapchat.

Finally, at DC’s ugliest hour, 4am, Donald made them pull over so he could wave a wad of cash at a dwindling herd of streetwalkers, working girls, who started at the night all tarted up for the usual post-SOTU vilefest, but just headed home now, mascara running down there face, lipstick smeared off on johncock, most of them even carrying their wigs. The only one to come over told Donald that she would do whatever he wanted. The greenest of the SS boys yelped and hit the gas when she was close enough for him to see the giant penis that had come unmoored under her miniskirt, the abused red tip of it peeking out the bottom like a shy class hamster. Donald screamed and yelled and threatened and begged to go back, but I knocked a few bills out of his hand and rolled the window up on the squeals of glee as the sore-crotched ladies chased the drifting bills through SUV exhaust.

I wouldn’t have let Donald get too far with the ladyboy. That’s not what he really wants. I should know. I am his hair after all.

“It’s time to go home, Donald,” I told him.

“They dressed in virgin white,” he muttered. “At least be honest about being a whore.”

“Maybe you should go home to your wife, Donald,” I told him.

“Home? I don’t have a home,” Donald said miserably. “That just someplace I go to tweet.”

Here was the Donald I had to deal with, the crash off of the high, the bi in the polar. No matter how well he did at the State of the Union, this was coming. I sighed, ruffling myself on top of his head.

“Tell them to take us home, Donald,” I told him.

“No!” the hat roared. “Hookers, Big Macs and blow!”

“It’s time to go home,” I told the hat. He sat on the buttery leather seat beside Donald, tumescent in his turpitude. More, more; faster, faster was all he knew. He wasn’t the one to ever have to pick of the pieces to keep the country going.

“Prig!” the hat accused. “Prude! What you need is to get laid.”

“My sex life is none of your business,” I told him. If I had a gun I would have made the point with six rounds of lead.

“Home,” I said into Donald scalp, over and over until he repeated it. We drove through the DC streets with the ghastly light of another greasy dawn starting to spill over all the filth. I felt sick.